


just say you'll come and set me free

by bloodinfection



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gunplay, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Somewhat, a lot hurt with too little comfort, boys crying, no but actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 06:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11753838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodinfection/pseuds/bloodinfection
Summary: A thunderstorm is raging outside, screwing with Matt's senses, the tingle of static only slightly distracting,but not distracting enough, is itand another one has found its way inside, curled up on the floor, violent like an earthquake and tragic like a hurricane, a tiny spot of red, hot in an ice cold sea, and how did that man even manage to get himself to be that small?





	just say you'll come and set me free

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xmababehx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xmababehx/gifts).



> written as a birthday gift for a long time friend  
> she's the one who got me into the fandom & she's the one keeping me in it  
> hope she won't hate me after this  
> luv u bby

There’s a new feeling, something he’s never experienced before, twisting Matt’s insides for just the tiniest fraction of a second. Then, an oh-so-familiar sound of a throat clenching, tiny gasps echoing loud as ever in his ears. A heartbeat not like any he's encountered before, so captivating it seems to be controlling his own, and so powerful it makes the ground tremble, equally astounding each time Matt picks up on it.

And he knows that heartbeat, the steady rhythm of someone trained to never lose their cool, a calming bassline to Matt’s life that seems to be with him at all times, even if the owner’s not around. He’s grown so used to it, so attached, using the memory of the soft thud-thud-thud as a security blanket of sorts, playing it inside his head as if it were a record, and a broken one, too.

Except this time it’s not steady and it’s not calm, just like the ragged, sharp inhales and shaky exhales, just like the sound of joints cracking and bones grinding together and for a second Matt’s disoriented because there’s only one heartbeat, no one else in the apartment, so who’s—

“Frank? You hurt?”

And the question makes Matt feel real dumb for a second there because _of course_ Frank’s hurt, why the hell would he be in Matt’s flat for heaven's sake, get yourself together Murdock, will ya?

But instead of words, or an unintelligible shout or _anything that could possibly come out of an ex-marine crazed killer, c’mon_ , there’s a sob, quiet and meant to never be heard, and oh, what’s that other noise? Is it Matt’s heart shattering into little pieces? Possibly. 

It’s not like he's never heard anyone cry, obviously, and it’s not even like he’s never heard Frank cry because he did, but this, _this_.

As he opens the door, Matt half-expects a rapid inhale to bring everything to a halt but when it doesn’t, when Frank lets a couple more pathetic, wet sobs wreck through his body, Matt—

Yeah, what does Matt do, exactly? Because it seems like he's just standing, frozen mid-step, ol' no-good Murdock boy, can't handle anything by himself, can he? A mercy kill it would be, that boy, been telling you for years—

He tells himself that no, he's better than this, takes a careful step forward, and yeah, maybe just to piss off the voices, but he can't get his feet to move and the spiteful laughter he hears stings just as much as a real one would. 

Laughing is the last thing on his mind though, each breathy sound reaching his ears feeling like a punch to the gut and God, maybe he deserves it, he can believe he deserves it, he'll believe anything just _stop this, stop this_.

Breathe in, breathe out. The power's out, Matt notes and he's still stuck in place, door open, his racing brain going into overload, hectically looking for anything that'd get his attention somewhere where he can gather his scattered thoughts, somewhere tears-free. The apartment feels different too, its usual buzz of appliances exchanged for a painfully still, unnerving silence, eating through Matt’s bones, chilling him to the core and _oh but it's anything but quiet_.

A thunderstorm is raging outside, screwing with his senses, the tingle of static only slightly distracting, _but not distracting enough, is it_ and another one has found its way inside, curled up on the floor, violent like an earthquake and tragic like a hurricane, a tiny spot of red, hot in an ice cold sea, and how did that man even manage to get himself to be that small?

Matt jumps, startled, as the door closes with a click and he jumps again when among the throbbing mess of their heartbeats and the storm and the *oh God crying*, there's a voice, a broken one, _no no that's not right what happened_ , and Matt knew he was a goner the second he opened the door, hell, even before that but _now_.

“I can’t do this anymore, you know, Red?” Pause. More tears, and in that very moment Matt can swear on everything that is holy that he hears them rolling down Frank’s cheeks, the side of his nose, pooling at the bottom of his chin and _drip drip drip._

_me neither, not like this._

“I saw them. I, they—” throat working, voice cracking, choking on the words, _nonono_ , “they looked disappointed. In me.”

They, they, who’re they, who—oh. Oh, no. “You’re having the dreams again.”

There’s a smile in Frank’s voice but it’s not real and the mere thought makes Matt’s heart sink. “Did they ever stop, really?”

Karen said they did. Karen said everything’s alright now. God damn Karen.

Frank shifts, his hand slamming on the floor heavily, making Matt wince at the sharp sound of metal hitting wood. Of course he’s got a gun ready. “I have one bullet left in this thing, Red. And you know where the rest is?” He laughs, more to himself than anything, and God, does he reek of whiskey, that can’t be good. 

Oh yeah, Matt knows. “Some poor bastard’s brain, I’m guessing? Maybe you were feeling fancy and offed six different ones at the same time. I can never know with you. We’ll see when the morning news comes on.”

The tinge of unfiltered sorrow colors Frank’s words in a way that takes Matt off guard, a bullet to the back of his head when he least expects it. “You’re a funny one, ain’t you?”, before he falls quiet, painfully so, and breaks down once again, rendering Matt speechless when another wave of crushing empathy lands. 

This is bound to be the loudest silence he’s ever experienced, Matt’s sure of it, the storm and the city outside nothing compared to how loud Frank's heartbeat is pulsing in his head, the blood rushing through his veins sounding more like a lively river, the crying _crying crying how's it possible_ now somewhat muffled yet still deafening but no words, no words is considered silence. 

It's hot in the flat all of a sudden, or maybe it's just Matt’s face heating up with traitor tears threatening to fall down as he crosses the room shakily, and he's suffocating, carefully loosening his tie but the lump in his throat keeps growing with each second, with each breath of thick air, Frank's presence filling up every square inch of space, a dark cloud heavy with so much pent-up despair and misery it will burst any second now, raining down on Matt, acid downpour eating away at anything he may hold dear. 

“Threw 'em in the Hudson. Everything. Save for this guy.” Frank swallows around his words, lifts his hand half-heartedly, waves the gun around. Matt gets hit with a sudden rush of adrenaline. 

“I'm taking you changed your ways and I'm the last thing on your to-do before you back off into the civilian life, yeah?” Be cocky. Hide. Pretend. That much you're good at.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you, choir boy?” 

Jokes. Jokes are a good sign, right?

“Well actually, been thinkin' I might just go out myself.” _not a good sign, I repeat, not a good sign_ “Came with an offer. A favor, if you will. Since we're such good friends. Maria said it'd—” his head rolls back, joints cracking audibly. It hits the couch behind him with a soft thud. “—it'd be the best for both of us. If you were the one to. You know.”

Matt’s paralyzed, taken aback, because surely, Frank isn't asking him to—

Except that he is.

“Frank,” Matt begins, not certain where he's heading, and he sighs, helpless. “Frank, are you sure your dead wife is the best advisor in this situation?”

Every moment not filled with Frank's voice seems excruciatingly long and unnecessary and Matt _almost_ misses their old-married-couple banter. “Course she's not. I made her up, after all. And lemme tell you Red, I ain't the best problem solver around.” _No, clearly, clearly you're not._ “'s just I, I feel they might. God. Be less disappointed with who I've become, yeah? If I just, just joined them, wherever they are. Stopped this avenging bullshit. Used to feel it's for the better I don't have anyone to talk 'bout this. No one to knock some sense into me. It's—it's the only thing I believed. Didn't want my world to come crashing down on me. Again.” 

Matt sinks to his knees next to Frank. Slowly raises his hand, rests the palm on Frank's wet cheek. He can feel the swell of bruises, the bumps where bone didn't have a chance to heal. He can feel a slight burn where his own skin split open from a blow just at the thought of all the pain that came with these marks and he's panicking, heart rate almost as frantic as that of a mouse, because no, it's not okay for one man to have to go through so much alone and apparently he thinks so too as he's currently contemplating _death_ and no, sorry, Matt isn't having that. 

“I don't think you—”

Frank laughs, low and guttural. “Trust me, I do. They're dead. They ain't coming back. And no matter how many assholes I kill, I—I can't make any of them feel half as guilty as I feel, can I? Justice ain't shit.”

“No, Frank, no, listen—” Breathe in, breathe out. “How could you even for a second think I'd agree to— _that_?”

He shrugs in reply, as if it were the most obvious of things, as if it weren't sending Matt into a near panic attack and that, that he hasn't experienced since he was a child and who does Frank even think he is, coming into his apartment, his life, tearing it down just like that, with a couple sobs, burning brighter than a shooting star and—

“Thought it'd be romantic,” another laugh and _stop laughing like that, it's worse, worse than the tears_ , “Intimate, almost. First kill? Wait, sorry, what is it? First _deliberate_ kill? That'd stay with you forever, Red.”

As he talks, Frank picks up one of Matt's wrists, slides the gun into his open palm. Matt's finger slips over the trigger as Frank rests his own hand over Matt's. 

He brings the gun up between them. 

“Curious, ain't you? They didn't tell you what it's like to kill a man in bible camp, huh?” The barrel is gently digging just under Matt's chin, stealing his breath. There's still a note of hesitation in Frank's voice, it's still teary. His eyes are puffy, Matt imagines.“It's good. You might feel bad before and you might feel bad after but what you feel as you do it, being this close, this personal? Nothing like it.” Frank guides their hands, drags the gun over Matt's cheek, catches the corner of his mouth. Breathe in, breathe out. “Don't get all excited on me, choir boy,” as Matt feels pressure on his temple, _oh God yes_ , and why does he like it, it's not the time—“that's not what I'm here for, thought that much's established.”

And then the gun is gone, _gone gone gone_ , at the side of Frank's head instead, and it's just Matt holding it now, hand shaking, the other coming up to touch Frank's cheek again. Bruises. God, so many of them. Matt feels Frank wince as he examines one. 

“I can fight,” Matt hears and he's mesmerised, in a trance almost. “I can fight if it'll make it easier on you. Probably would feel better, too. We'd roll on the floor, tryna punch the shit outta each other like we always do. You'd aim that gun just right,” _but it's not right, it'll never be right_ “Squeeze the trigger like I know you want to. And it's over. I'm not fighting anymore. And you've won.”

Matt’s breath stutters, again, his heart too fast for his own good and he can feel it everywhere, the blood pumping like there's no tomorrow and Frank feels it too, he has to because Matt moves closer, facing him, adjusts his grip and the barrel is steady against Frank's temple. 

Frank cocks his head, as if to test if Matt would follow. “Murdock one, the world zero,” as he tries to even out his breathing, and Matt's gone, he's out because Frank's never said his name before and oh, what wouldn't Matt give to be able to see his face in this moment.

A thunder hits somewhere near them but they don’t even flinch. They're still for too long yet neither of them seems to be able to collect himself, and Matt knows Frank is studying his face carefully, waiting for a reaction, but Matt, he just—

The gun hits something, a wall or maybe a counter, as Matt flings it across the apartment with more force that he intends to but he's so full of it, there’s too much going on at once and he can’t, and he won’t, and this is not how this ends, not if he has a say in any of it, and as he throws his arms around Frank’s shoulders he’s mad and he’s shaking and _screw him for even thinking like that, for having the audacity—_ “I hate you. God, I hate you.”

Matt expects Frank to laugh and if he did he’d be sporting another black eye because _how dare you_ , but no, no, instead “Yeah, me too.”

Frank’s big hand rubs soothing circles over Matt’s back and this is not what Matt thought would happen, this is not where he expected to end up but he doesn’t care anymore, or he cares too much, and he’s not okay, they’re not okay.

Rain keeps drumming on the windows restlessly.

Frank Castle is crying and the world is crying with him.


End file.
